


The things you do for him

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Metze's suffering at Kelly's hands...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The things you do for him

**Author's Note:**

> First published on LJ on July 22nd, 2005.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.

The things you do for your best friend, you think, sighing. You're waiting for Christoph to come out of the shower so you can get this over with. Why in the hell had you agreed to do Metze a favor? Cutting his toe nails. Toe nails. You already had to cut his nails, which went pretty well, at least Metze had only bemoaned the fact that you had cut them a bit too much back, but you had shrugged that off, saying that he could bite them off himself if he was so set on having perfect nails – and that you very much enjoyed not having any nail marks on your back or hips.

Metze steps out of the shower in all his naked glory, awkwardly drying his legs off with just the one hand. You grin at his dorkiness – he's always dorky, so that pretty much isn't news to you, but it's endearing all the same – and get up, snatching the towel from his hand and do the job yourself, starting with his head, rubbing it briskly and hearing a muffled "Ow, Basti!"

"You're not made out of sugar," you say, now doing his shoulders and then you're on his chest, longslides and he grins, raising his good hand and slides his fingers through your spikes. "The way you go down on me, I sometimes doubt that," he says.

You just answer that with a snort and a hard lick over his nipple, feeling his fingers clutch your hair. "Nope, definitely not sweet." He laughs, a bit breathlessly.

Now you sling the towel around his back and rub it, pulling him to you with every stroke. He willingly follows, and then you're pressed up against each other, him breathing down your cheek, his hand tracing your neck, fingertips pressing gently against the indent behind your ear, and then he's nibbling at your left earlobe.

"Stop it, Christoph – work now, play later," you admonish him, but you don't stop the small circles you're making with the towel on his back, which is already pretty dry, going lower and lower until your hands are on his ass.

He chuckles into your ear. "You don't seem very averse to it, Basti," he whispers, and as he presses himself against you, you feel his length hardening, shifting against the thin fabric of your shorts. You can't help a little buck, but you know that once you get started that it'll lead to both of you having sex like there's no tomorrow and then he'll nag you again to cut his toenails – who would've thought that a guy would care that deeply about his fucking _toenails_? – so you let the towel fall to the ground and step back, although with a mental sigh.

"Later, I promise. Now, toenails. While you're still all clean and sparkly," you say, pointing to the bed. He raises his eyebrows. "Who are you and what have you done with my Kehli?" – "Hey, I'm horny, too," you say, grinning and indicating the slight bulge denting your shorts, "but I do know how insufferable you can get when you're not getting your way and I don't want to touch any sweaty and stinky toes, so get your ass on there."

"No love for my toes?" he asks, mock-pouting and picking up his most comfortable shorts from the bed, sitting down. "My love doesn't go that far," you say, searching in your toilet kit that you had fetched from of the bathroom previously, for the toe clipper, "as your toes and your feet in general never did anything for my libido, as cute as they are."

He manages to get the shorts over his legs one-handedly, stands up and pulls them over his hips, his cock still a bit hard, but it's not that noticeable anymore. "Well, I'm not going to bind my feet, you know."

"Huh?", you say, turning around to him, having finally found the toe clipper. "What's that got to do with it?"

He grins, lowering himself onto the bed and scooting up to the headboard. "History lesson: you know about this old custom of the Chinese, breaking the bones in girls' feet and binding them together so they'd have these small feet?" At your nod, he continues, "Well, because the soles then were bent like that," and he crooks his fingers so they equate an almost-circle, "some Chinese men loved sticking their dicks into that."

You shake your head at his weirdness, climbing on the bed and straddling his lower thighs, your back to him so you have free access to his toes. "Well, you better not do that to your feet – you'd topple over all the time, anyway."

He shifts his legs a bit, his fingers sliding under the hem of your faded Freiburg t-shirt and tracing your skin, little circlesquiggles. "No, they had people carrying them around in sedans – they never did a step in their life because it would've hurt too damn much."

"Huh," you say, eyeing his toes. They do look as if they need cutting, but you also know that he's quite ticklish. Well, now or never. "That would've been just the thing for you when you got injured."

He chuckles. "Well, I could say the same about you," and then his hand finds your foot, gently tracing the whitefresh scar, and you smile to yourself, knowing that he was rather worried all the time – still is –, trying to persuade you to stop the charade and do the operation as early as possible, but you had refused, saying that the Borussia needed you, and so did the team, and you just couldn't let them down, and it evolved into one of your rare fights then. It actually was the third fight – you've counted them, every one of them reminding you of your friendship's strength. You knew that he doesn't want you to end up like him, missing almost two years of playing, but you're grown, you can decide for yourself, and in the end he gave in, but made you promise that you'd do the operation immediately after the last match, and that you'd _try_ to be careful. And you did so. And enjoyed him caring about you, cooking your favorite pasta dishes for you, though when it did get too much, you told him to tone it down or distracted him with sex – the latter always worked like a charm. You think you should get your blowjobs patented, really.

You grab his right foot and it twitches. He's very ticklish, something that aids you very well in when you roughhouse around. Unfair, yes, but since when's life fair? "Stop it, Metze," you say, bending down, "or I'll maim you accidentally – or not so accidentally – and I think playing soccer with a missing big toe won't go over so well."

He sighs. "But I'm just that ticklish." – "Don't whine, you wuss," you say, and you don't have to look at him to know that he's rolling his eyes.

You extend the big toe towards you – again he jerks, and it slips out of your hold. "Damn it, Metze, I'm trying to _do_ your bidding here!", you snap at him, having turned around, and he mumbles, "sorry."

Big toe grabbed – check. You feel that he's trying to keep himself in check, the slight jitter in his legs proving it. Toe clipper in your other hand – check. And then you're clipping the one edge of his toenail, trying to take off as much as you can because then he won't annoy you too soon about doing it again.

He clutches your ankle, hissing. "What are you doing there, trying to cut it _all_ off?" – "Hey, how did you _guess_?", you retort, grabbing his toe again, shifting farther up so that he can't jerk it again. Damn, this proves harder than you thought – you almost wish you had Malte here who would hold him down. And gag him.

Clip. Next toe. Clip. Your knuckles are white now from trying to keep his toes in place, feeling them getting sweatyslippery. Cl- and you scrape over the nail, and he yells.

"It's not as if I'm fucking mutilating you," you sigh, closing your eyes. "Think of something else, will you?"

"What else?", he snaps.

"Bunnies frolicking in the meadow. Little birds chirping. Whatever turns your crank," you say, turning around. A grin slowly forms on his lips. "I know what turns my crank, and that's sitting on my legs."

You return the grin. "Well, then think about _me_ for all you want."

"I'd rather do more than just thinking," he leers.

"Ever heard of patience? Two toes down, eight to go."

"You're evil, Kelly. I'll hereby name you the master of nasty, horrid torture. Even with the TM thing after it."

You chuckle, grabbing his foot again. "Well, if that makes you happy, I'm not gonna complain." Carefully you lower the clipper to the toenail that you missed last time, and this time you manage it. The two littlest ones are left now, and you raise his foot as much as you can, bending lower. You clip only the top of the toenail of the first one, but you want to get more, so you grab it, and he squirms, giggling. "That tickles, Basti!"

"Not my fault," you say and then you clip as much as you can, concentrating on not accidentally pinching some skin. He digs his fingers in your ankle, hissing, and you're wincing – apparently finger nails that are really cut down do manage to still mark you. "Stop that, Metze – or we'll be up all night."

A sigh, and slowly the deathgrip loosens. "I'd love to be up all night, but not for _this_."

"Well, you did beg me to do it, if I may remind you." And then you've clipped the last toenail and let the foot fall back. He groans. "How much did you cut off? Half of each toenail? It sure did feel like that."

"They'll survive it – and so will you," you say, looking at him and raising your eyebrow. "This is the absolutely last time I'm cutting your toenails, you know."

He nods. "Works for me, too. I mean, I fucking love you, Basti, but you and toenails – nails in general – that just _has_ to be something up there on the To-Do list at Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo Bay, really." – "For _that_, I'm going to really cut all your toes off," you retort.

He yells, as you've just grabbed his other foot – maybe a bit too rough – and you roll your eyes. "What, you could survive the grueling rehabilitation exercises and at a bit of toenail cutting you're having a major freak-out?"

Metze grabs your t-shirt and uses the weight of you on his legs to lever himself up. "Basti, for the love of God, just stop assaulting my feet. I _need_ them!"

A click, and you see Roman in the door. "What's up in here?", he asks, raising his eyebrows, amused at seeing the scene laid out in front of his eyes.

"He fucking maims my toes!", Metze groans. "I invoke the Geneva convention, or whatever it's called. This is inhuman!"

You roll your eyes. "He's just being a wimp. There's no blood yet."

Roman leans against the door frame, grinning. "That I've got to see. Sure you don't need any help, Basti?"

You shake your head, grinning at the goalie. "Nah, I'm good like that. And should he –", you jerk your thumb over your shoulder at Metze, "plan anything, well, I'll just have a nice sweet little revenge plan ready for when he's sleeping."

"I like your train of thought, Basti," Roman says, smirking slightly. "Remind me to never get on your bad side."

You laugh, and then you feel Metze flopping back on the bed, your t-shirt sliding out of his grip. Shuffling more forward, you look back at him over your shoulder. "Gonna behave?"

"I'll be a fucking angel, if that's what you want, evil incarnate," your bestfriendlover sighs.

"Aw, you flatter me." And you get back to work, clipping the smallest toe neatly, feeling him jerk slightly, but you've got him in an extra hard grip now.

"Is a party taking place in here?", and you see Flo's blond-bleached head peek in curiously.

"You're witnessing an impromptu Shakespearean play: 'The Taming of the Shrew'," Roman informs Flo, smirking.

You grin. "Just cutting his toenails."

Flo stares at both of you incredulously. "You're cutting his _toenails_? Must be real love, Basti," he jokes, and you just wink at him.

"Yeah, must be."

"I consider it torture, personally," Metze grumbles. "The whole mankind should should be so grateful that Basti never trained to become a pedicurist."

You've now finished two more toenails off while Metze had been bemoaning his fate, only the big one and the second one are left. Roman shakes his head, still grinning. "You two really are something." – "We do our best to be as entertaining as possible," you quip, bending down and changing the grip on the clipper slightly, adjusting it to the toenail's size. One quick clip – and then it's just the big one left.

"The last one now," you inform Metze, who just groans. "I'll throw a fucking party once this is over," he says.

A flash, and you sigh. "Floooorian…"

The blond says, "I just couldn't resist," holding up his new digicam that he already annoyed the whole team with the previous days, always waiting to catch people in the most embarrassing moments. Roman laughs. "I like that in a man – deviousness and quite some courage," he says to Flo.

The latter shrugs. "It's not exactly Mission Impossible, so why would I need any courage?" – "Because once Kelly here is done, he'll be after your ass and only a miracle can save you then," Roman smirks.

You chance a quick look over your shoulder to Metze, winking at him. You have absolutely no designs on Flo's ass, in fact, the only ass you've got some designs on – and rather sooner than later – is right on this bed, beneath you.

"I'll let him live if he'll mail me the pic," you say, "I need some more incriminating material for my blackmailing-Metze-folder, after all."

Flo laughs. "Sure thing, Basti." He comes into the room and crouchs down at the end of the bed, right in front of you and raises the cam. "Cheese!"

Clip-clip, and the last toenail has been cut. You can't resist it – you throw the toe-clipper in the general direction of the toilet kit, and then you're grabbing Metze's right foot, tickling his sole and Metze gasplaughgiggles, beating weakly at your back with his hands, his legs jerking wildly, but you don't budge, grinning, continuing the merciless tickling.

"Now that's _some_ torture," Roman says, laughing along with Flo, who has moved out of the danger zone back to the door.

All of a sudden, Metze has levered himself up and his arms are around you, and then he's heaving you off his legs, but has miscalculated his force and both of you land next to the bed on the hard floor in a heap, right in front of Roman's and Flo's feet.

"Ooof, you lug," you groan, wincing at the pain spiking up your hip, the hard floor not very comfortable. Metze just grunts, still holding you in a death grip. "Serves you right, tickling me like that. You're positively evil, Sebastian Kehl."

He then throws a leg over your hips, and suddenly you're on your stomach, pinned to the floor and he's straddling you, just above your ass. "Now who's laughing, eh?"

You twist and squirm, but he's just using all his weight to keep you under him, and then he bends forward, whispering in your ear, "You'll so _pay_ for that, Kelly." Damn. You turn to look at Roman and Flo, who are chuckling at your antics, and eye them.

"What about helping a good old teammate in the throes of a wild beast?", you appeal at their sense of comradeship.

But Roman, the traitor that he is, just says, "We'll just disappear instead – we wouldn't want to be held responsible in aiding a manslaughter or something like that," nodding to both of you and pulling a protesting Flo ("Hey! That pic would have made the news!") with him, shutting the door behind them.

You suspect that he _knows_, but as long as he's apparently okay with it, you're not too bothered about it. "And they call themselves our friends," you mock-sigh, bucking up against Metze a little.

"Our friends? Why, I believe they've just upgraded to _my_ friends," Metze says, and you don't have to see him to know that he's smirking.

"Let me go," you say, squirming again. While it's a nice feeling to have him on top, you didn't exactly imagine the hard floor as the place to have a go at it – you'd much prefer the bed.

"Only if you're going to suck me," Metze says, shuffling backwards so that his ass is now on your upper thighs, bending forward and biting your neck gently, evoking a shudder from you – accompanied by goosebumps spreading all along your spine and you can feel a familiar hot length harden against your ass. He presses down gently, shifting a bit and you shuddersigh. "Damn it, get up and on the bed, and pronto," you hiss.

He chuckles and then the warm weight lifts from your hips and you roll onto your back, raising yourself up on your elbows, reveling in your cock's happiness at finally being able to free movely. He's standing in front of you, a rather obvious bulge denting his shorts, and raises an eyebrow at you.

"Someone down there is quite eager to see me, I think," he says, smirking. You roll your eyes, but can't help an answering grin, and then you're up on your knees and clutching his hips, nuzzling the shorts, and he groans, sliding his good hand in your hair, fisting it - the other hand in the brace is just resting against your head, pressing down slightly. You breathe in his smell, as he's worn these shorts quite often at training camp when he wants to be comfortable, his musk mixing with the faint trace of the washing detergent, his cock hothard against your mouth even though the thick fabric of the shorts, and you exhale warm breath over it and feel him shudder in answer. You mouth the length of the hard shaft, licking the washed-out shorts, your tongue scraping over the rough cloth of the fabric, little knots catching, slowly getting wet with every lick and his grip on your head tightens, not too hard but letting you know to not stop this at any price, even if Marwijk himself were to walk in – though you suspect you could cover it up as some recreational exercise, helping him out, as he's now quite disabled in that aspect.

But you don't want to do it this way, so you use your grip on his hips to turn him around so he's standing in front of the bed - and then you push down, him following without the least bit of hesitation, plopping down on the bed and spreading his legs. But you shake your head. "This floor is poison for my knees, Metze. Scoot up, will you?"

"Mr Sensitive," he grins, but obeys you so that he's sitting on the bed, his back to the wall, propped up by the pillows. You crawl in between his spread legs, advancing on him. He smiles and you see little flickers of desire in his eyes. "Get on with the show already, Basti," he says.

You silence his impertinent mouth with a deep kiss, his hands creeping up to hold your face in place and this kiss makes your toes curl, it's a kiss you could die happily after, his tongue is robbing you of every sensible thought that you ever possessed, catching your breath and returning it, tastes mingling until you can no longer distinguish between you and him, it's just MetzeandBasti now, and your eyes close so that you're only tastingtouchinghearing him, the little sounds he makes, sighhums, echoing yours.

And you're lowering yourself on him, still kissing, having perfected the fine art of breathing through your nose, and then his arms go around you, holding you, and you _just_ melt into him, deepening the kiss because you don't have to hold yourself up anymore, you just let go and it's languidslow_intense_, so intense that you feel like you're heading towards eternity, spiralling into it until you don't know where you are, upside or down or whatever, and if you're even still _alive_, feeling lost and whole at the same time, very much so. But at the same time you know that he's your one and only stronghold, the north that your compass points to, unerringly, never letting you get lost, ever.

You're by now entangled, but fitting perfectly into each other, no awkward limbs digging into your bodies, no, it's like key and lock, pot and lid, and you slide your hand down, along his side, feeling the slight flutter of his muscles, and you're amazed everytime that he feels _so_ familiar, that you've memorized him a thousand and a thousand times over by touch and feel and taste and smell – you would even bet that you'd know him from all your other teammates just by touching him – anywhere at all.

And then your impatient hand slips under the waistband of his shorts, encountering his dick, halfhard by now, and like always, your fingers curl around it and he sighs into your mouth, tongues duelling with each other lazily, his hands wandering over your back, sliding under your t-shirt, the brace scraping over your sensitive skin. Somehow, it's as it has always been, and you should get bored by it by now, but the sparks, the attraction are still there, and you know that they will never diminish, always managing to leave you both breathless, drawn together again and again by friendship and love and passion, but by friendship foremost.

He spreads his legs a little more, your left leg sliding in between his, and you remember your promise, and, smiling slightly into the lazysoft kiss, you raise yourself over him, your other hand stroking his short hair, threading through the strands, and then you suck his tongue into your mouth, twirling your own around it, licking it up and down, circling its top, faking a blow-job, and he gets the message – thrusting up into your hand, oh yes, he _does_. You end the kiss and he smiles, licking his lips, at which you wink at him, grinning. "Need help getting off these shorts, Metze?"

He rolls his eyes, the flush spreading from his face to his chest making him all the more desirable. "Jeez, just get on with it, Kelly," and raises his hips, inadvertly thrusting up again into your hand, sighmoaning, and you stop teasing him and get down to business, sliding the shorts off him, off the long leanmuscled thighs, the hard calves and finally the feet, and then you're sitting up, enjoying him laid out in front of you.

You drink him in with your eyes, never getting enough of how he looks when he's all hot and flushed and yearning for release. He's blushing at your hungry look, but is self-confident enough to spread his legs more, raising his arms behind his head, folding them, which he manages well enough with the brace. He knows you too well.

"Haven't you still got enough of me, Basti?", he grins.

"Well, let's talk about that again in, say, ten years – or twenty. Or thirty," you retort, smiling at him.

He laughs, and if there's something you love, it's hearing and seeing him laugh. Deep, a bit breathless, warm, and you join into it, but you still desire him – you will never actually stop to desire him, you think –, and then, just like that, you take his cock into your mouth, having become an expert at it in all these years you spent exploring each other's bodies, knowing exactly what turns him into a heap of boneless jelly, moanshuddering, blabbering things that might mean everything and nothing but that you can't pay any heed to because you're too caught up in your own lust. You also know just how much pressure to apply to his balls, and how to suck them into your mouth, tongueing them, while your wet finger slips downward and into his asscrack, encountering the furl and he bucks up, gasping, the control over his body slipping. You know that by now he's biting his fist, judging from the strangled sounds and your cock is achingthrobbing in your pants, jerking with every shudder that races through Metze's body.

He thrusts up, helplessly, and you let him, the thick head scraping along your palate, and then your nose is burrowing into his dark curls, smellingtasting fresh sweat mixing with his shower gel – no, it's yours, your Hugo shower gel, he must have filched it again, the lazy sod. He fills you, utterly, and you love being connected to him like this, feelingtastingsavoring him at his most intimate.

You stroke his entrance, drool and sweat and precome mixing, and then your hand closes around his balls again, massaging them slightly, feeling his thighs' jitter, knowing that he's close to losing it. After all, you're the expert where he's concerned – especially when it's about his bodily needs. His thrusts speed up, the rhythm getting faster and more disjointed, and you're letting him, your jaw beginning to ache, your tongue smoothing along the underside of his cock, covering your teeth, and just – just in that moment where you know he's totally losing it – you thrust the finger up into him and scrape your teeth slightly, ever so slightly, at the base of his cock and he spills himself into your mouth, every muscle in his body spasming, contracting, and it feels as if he got an electric shock – no, several ones, greatbig shudders convulsing his body and you dimly hear – your senses are overflowing with him, with his taste, his smell, his feel, his everything – him moaning loudly. It seems as if he couldn't keep himself in check... serves him right, you think.

All the while you're swallowing, that bittersweet taste that is already even more familiar to you than your own spunk, and finally the spurts recede. Then his hand is on your head and you let his cock slip gently from your mouth, catching the last drops with your tongue, looking up.

He shakes his head, smiling slightly. "You're unbelievable, Basti."

"Well, I did my best," you say, returning the smile. "After all, you can't be expected to be able to wank properly with that brace, now?"

He laughs, rolling his eyes and motioning to you to get up to lie next to him, which you do, readily, bypassing your cock's dire needs for the time being. "So that was your only ulterior motive?", he asks, his good hand stroking your arm, following the flow of your muscles.

You chuckle into his neck. "Yeah, I only live to serve."

"Seeing as how you're mainly my servant these days, this actually fits, Kelly," he says, and you know that he's grinning and you deliver a light slap to his tummy.

"Ow!" You snort at him. "That couldn't possibly have hurt."

"I'm really sensitive, you know," Metze says, "after all, I _barely_ survived your abominable toenail cutting." This is said in a fake wounded tone and you don't deign this with an answer and just smile, tracing the light fuzz of his chest hair, scraping with your nail over a hardened nipple, and his grip on your arm tightens. You edge closer to him, your cock pressing up against his thigh and he chuckles. "Something bothering you, Basti?"

"It better should be," you retort, fumbling with a hand to tug down your shorts, and then his hand helps you and with some quick, well-practiced moves, they end up on the floor.

"Let me do the honors," he says.

"You're entirely welcome to." And he is, anytime, and you lie back while he bends over you, a first nip at your jawline that makes you sigh and close your eyes as his fingers trail over your chest, down your abdomen and…

He knows you as well as you know him – and proves it, over and over.

And when your scream is muffled by the pillow you've pressed on your face, your entire body shaking, at the mercy of his skilled hand and his mouth, you don't think you could be any more happier for it. Or love him any more for it.

And when you look into his eyes, you know that he's feeling the same – and so you just smile at each other, saying everything and nothing without words. Because, really, there is no need for them.


End file.
